Videogames licensed from other entertainment properties are widely considered the nadir of video game development, and with good reason.
The game based on Steven Spielberg's "E.T.," for example, was so famously unplayable that it lead to a company-wide collapse in the early '80s, putting industry juggernaut Atari out of business almost singlehandedly. The shame associated with the title was so great that its publisher dumped millions of unsold copies into a secret landfill in the New Mexico desert and sealed them away with cement so they could never be played again.
It might then come as a surprise when I say that last week's release of "The Walking Dead," a game based on the popular TV and comic series, is, in a certain sense, the best defense of the emotional power of video games yet.
A few years ago, noted film critic Roger Ebert wrote an article that declared videogames could never be art. In short, the crux of his argument was this: because players of video games have agency, no single artist holds authorial power over the game's story.
"If you can go through every emotional journey available," he wrote, "doesn't that devalue each and every one of them? Art seeks to lead you to an inevitable conclusion, not a smorgasbord of choices."
While I could pull apart Ebert's assumption about "inevitable conclusions" fairly easily—find me two people with identical reactions to Pollock or Rothko—Ebert's greater fallacy is obvious; life itself is not linear. As a result, the freedom of choice does not diminish the power of expression in video games; it expands it exponentially.
I have been watching the "Walking Dead" TV show for years, but I can't say that I enjoy it very much. Sure, its production values are lavish and the acting is generally top-notch, but the plot largely consists of people sitting around and doing...nothing. Ostensibly, this gives the characters space to reflect on the horrors of the zombie-infested world they inhabit, but, in practice, it all boils down to uncinematic navel-gazing.
Film and television are inherently kinetic media. After all, we don't call them "movies" for nothing. They engage their audience first and foremost on a visual level, creating a natural inclination towards action. The "Walking Dead" TV show excels in the moments of tension when it puts its characters in mortal danger, but falls flat on its face when it attempts to record any kind of quiet reflection. While the film studies minor in me would never claim that the medium is incapable of conveying such subdued moments, the fact remains that its strength lies in the portrayal of motion, not emotion.
In the context of a videogame, however, these lengthy lulls in the action become exponentially more powerful. Like the show, most of the "Walking Dead" game focuses on survivors' interactions, but unlike the show, exactly what is said in the game is up to the player. As Roger Ebert snidely put it, every emotional journey is available to you.
At one point in the game, a little girl who has lost her parents asks you when she will see them again. In the show, this would have been an infuriating moment as the characters would invariably coddle the child, despite the pressing realities of their situation. One needs only look as far as protagonist Rick's exasperating relationship with his son Carl to see what I mean. However, when you are put in that situation as a player and challenged to provide a better response, the results are far more interesting.
The game will not wait long for your answer. Not responding is always a valid option with consequences of its own. As in real life, you must roll with the situations as they are presented to you, relying on gut reaction rather than cognitive analysis. Often, decisions you make only become clear in hindsight.
This is what Ebert did not understand when he claimed that videogames lack a distinct authorial voice: by giving the player agency, he or she becomes the author.
Over the course of the game, the story is shaped by your own actions. Whom does your character become close to? What does he say to them? Whom does he save? By answering these questions, the player develops a unique attachment to the people in the game world precisely because his interactions with them are his own. It doesn't matter that many characters you encounter are underdeveloped because they become nuanced by your personal experience with them.
As a result, when the action does pick up, it is far more meaningful. By design, the action segments are overtly simple and generally easy to get through. But even so, the same scenes are remarkably tense because they hold real consequences for characters you have come to care about. If you can't shoot the oncoming zombie in time, it will kill the little girl you just promised would see her family again.
In his article, Ebert struggled to find a workable definition for what art actually constitutes. In the end, the best he came up with was something through which he "was able to learn more about the experiences, thoughts and feelings of other people." Art is that which "engages our empathy." By allowing players to make their own connections to the characters in the game, "The Walking Dead" unequivocally meets his definition.
Don't worry, Ebert, we kids will stay off your lawn. We'll be too busy in front of the TV, playing our art.